


truth is, i bruise too easily

by kingdra (aroceu)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, Animal Transformation, Community: hp_creatures, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-15
Updated: 2012-11-15
Packaged: 2017-11-18 16:41:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/563175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aroceu/pseuds/kingdra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco's hunting in the middle of the winter when he meets the boy. And then suddenly Draco's falling and he doesn't know how to stop.</p>
            </blockquote>





	truth is, i bruise too easily

It was a cold and fine winter, Draco had been told, but despite his father’s warnings, he still wanted to hunt. The palace was large and suffocating; besides, the forest didn’t go further than ten kilometers in. Or so other hunters have said—Draco had yet to explore so deep.  
  
“Be careful out there,” Lucius had told him, from upon the silver throne. “There are wild animals in there.”  
  
“I know, Father,” Draco had said, slinging his bow and arrow over his shoulder as he made his way out of the main hall. “That’s why I go in, remember? To kill those wild animals.”  
  
He was in the forest now, sloping through the trees, trying to find some kill. Snow dotted the ground, and Draco pushed aside branches and cursed every moment he wasn’t being quiet enough. He knew that most animals would hide in their homes in such a season, and Draco wasn’t intent on getting them: it was unfair, attacking them in their sleep, in their houses. But some deer rode through the winter, and it was those deer Draco was aiming for.  
  
Mist clung to him like fingers; Draco cursed again. He’d have to rely on his hearing if this damned fog wouldn’t let up. But it was more likely that animals would be running during this time of year, to get away from the cold, wasn’t it? He tightened his grip around his bow and treaded softly over the crackling snow. He must’ve been out here for an hour now.  
  
The afternoon sun was only a bright light beyond the trees when Draco came to a clearing and decided to rest. He hadn’t thought he’d be very successful, but the disappointment made his spirits sink nonetheless. He placed himself at the base of a tree and fiddled with his arrows: always his preferred way of hunting, of killing. The rest of the men at the castle used swords and large, scary crossbows, always too bloody. Draco liked the swiftness of arrows, how only one strike was needed. It was better on both sides: for both the hunter and the hunted.  
  
A noise startled him out of his thoughts. Draco got his bow ready. Was that an animal, ready to burst through the trees? He fastened an arrow to his bow and waited, having nothing to fixate on through the mist.  
  
But the mist cleared and instead of seeing an animal, Draco saw a boy. By a river, in the middle of this wood. The strange thing was that the river wasn’t frozen, although surely it should be. Draco stared, fixated on the boy.  
  
The boy had hair dark as any raven’s, and around his eyes were little outlines—eyeglasses, almost like. He was wearing a simple dark green cloth around his body, and when he approached the pond and sat down next to it, he slipped the cloth off and dipped into the pond.  
  
Draco swallowed, feeling like a horrible voyeur—and knowing that he should be open-mouthed that the boy was bathing in such weather, and looking as if it was the middle of spring. Draco’s mouth was dry, though, because he didn’t see the blanket of snow enveloping the ground, didn’t feel the sting of the air that should’ve stung the boy’s body; instead he saw just the boy, all pale skin and dark hair with a slight nimbleness to him that Draco might’ve been able to feel his bones if he were to touch him.  
  
_No, no!_  Draco thought to himself, shaking his head. It wouldn’t do to get himself distracted, even by this boy. But though he wanted to go over, to ask the boy about himself, to know, something warm fired up in his belly and he couldn’t. He watched as the boy bathed in the ice water, and then stood up and turned away.   
  
When hunting, he couldn’t get distracted.  
  
*  
  
But he did, because from the afternoon till dusk, all he could do was think about the boy; he missed two deer because of his unfocused head. He caught the third deer, though, finally, and brought it home to his parents.  
  
“It’s too lean,” criticized the head of the kitchens, Chef Severus, when Draco and his family produced it to him.  
  
“At least it’s something,” said Draco.  
  
Severus narrowed his eyes at Draco and bent over to face him. “Too. Lean,” he said, and Draco just rolled his eyes and turned away.  
  
“You’ll still cook it, won’t you?” asked Narcissa, the queen. Draco’s mother. She placed her hand on Draco’s shoulder and Severus glanced up to her, straightened back up.  
  
“Yes, but I cannot guarantee that it will be of greatest quality,” he said, his eyes darting back down to Draco again.  
  
“I’m sure that anything the prince catches is of excellent quality,” said Narcissa.  
  
“Indeed,” Severus murmured, looking at Draco again. “But, did you hear,” he said to Narcissa. “A few of the knights said they had gone hunting the other day and saw the strangest thing.”  
  
Draco resisted the urge to roll his eyes again. The knights were mostly idiots; he usually didn’t waste time with them.  
  
“The strangest what?” asked Lucius.  
  
Severus looked to him as well. It was as if every time his gaze landed on someone, they required his full attention. “A stag,” Severus said in a hushed voice.  
  
Lucius’s eyes widened. “A stag? On our land?” he said, and Severus nodded. “There hasn’t been a stag around these parts in forever,” said Lucius. “We must catch it.”  
  
“What’s so great about a stag?” said Draco.  
  
“Great, mighty creatures,” said Lucius, “with antlers fit for a king. Or a prince.” He smiled at Draco. “If on one of your hunting excursions you find it, you must kill it and we can throw a feast in celebration. And, of course, the stag will be the main attraction.” He bowed his head pointedly toward Severus.  
  
Severus bowed back. “Of course,” he said. “But I am not sure if Prince Draco is skilled enough to capture such a beast.”  
  
“I am,” said Draco defiantly. “I  _will_  get that stag.”  
  
*  
  
The next day, however, as he prepared for hunting again, his mind went back to the boy he had seen earlier, rather than about the stag. His father came in as Draco was doing up his boots, standing by the doorway.  
  
“I have faith in you, Draco,” he said, “but I would still like you to be careful.”  
  
“I  _am_  careful, Father,” said Draco, shoving his arrows in his pouch. “You saw me bring those two deer home yesterday.”  
  
Lucius continued to watch as Draco went to the other side of the room to grab his hat, and then his large winter coat.  
  
“Look for that stag, won’t you?” he said. “Not just for the kingdom, or for me, but for yourself. People will have faith in you as a prince—you will have faith in yourself as a prince.”  
  
“Of course, Father,” said Draco, tightening his bow string. “Say, you don’t know if there are any… villages in the wood, do you?”  
  
“In the wood?” Lucius frowned. “No, I don’t believe so. Have you seen any?”  
  
“No, I thought maybe I…” Perhaps telling his father about the boy wouldn’t be a good idea “… heard something, yesterday.”  
  
“Might’ve been the stag,” said Lucius hopefully.  
  
“Maybe,” said Draco, thinking of the boy again.  
  
*  
  
It was a bit later than the last time when Draco came to the clearing again. He'd tried hunting before coming, but all he could think was,  _is he going to be there again? what if he sees me? where does he come from?_  and had accidentally stepped on the tail of a raccoon which he hadn't even seen, much less thought about killing.  
  
He found the tree he'd sat at last time and prepared to sit and wait again; but his thighs had barely touched the ground when he saw a mess of black hair among the trees, and then pale skin and the smallest little  _splash!_  
  
Draco picked himself up again, although not loud enough to be heard. He slipped to behind the tree—he didn't want the boy accidentally spotting him. Who knew what kind of rumors would start in the land, if the prince was seen gawking at a possible peasant boy. Things like this needed to be done in secret.  
  
He peered around the tree. The boy was wading through the waters, soaking himself in the cold, letting the river swallow him whole. He treaded to the other side and then placed his hands on the snow and swiftly let himself up, without even flinching.  
  
Draco swallowed. The boy was beautiful, especially with beads of the clear river water running down his body. His pale skin seemed even paler in the sunlight, the snow making him brighter, the trees only flecks of green against the darkness of his hair. When he opened his eyes, just a little, Draco almost stopped breathing—greener than spring, like the grass Draco used to ride on when he was seven years old, smiling and laughing. Draco found his lungs again, and watched the naked boy.  
  
And in all his years of living Draco had known his preferred sex, but this boy couldn't compare to neither girls nor boys: Draco wanted to touch him, to feel his smooth skin at least once. His hips were narrow and Draco could imagine gripping them; and there were small dark hairs at the base of his cock. Draco's throat went dry as it did yesterday, and he turned and pressed himself against the tree to keep himself breathing.  
  
Who was this boy and why was he here again? And Draco longed to spend the rest of the day standing here, watching him. This boy, bathing in the river.  
  
*  
  
He couldn't, of course, because he was expected to bring a kill home even though it wasn't necessary. But Severus always was doubtful of him and the knights often scorned at him and Draco desired to prove his name as the prince, through bringing home too-skinny deer.  
  
"Only one today?" Lucius asked, and Draco's stomach flipped. He'd spent an hour staring at the boy today without even realizing it.  
  
For the next couple of weeks, however, the king and queen were relatively lenient with his going out hunting, perhaps in the hopes that he'd bring the alleged stag home. Draco thought about it, that maybe he should at least  _try_ , but too much of his mind was on the boy by the river for him to concentrate. He'd stand by the tree and watch the boy, even though the boy was doing the same thing every day—tread along the water, soak himself clean, climb out to rub his body, and slip into the water again. With every movement Draco couldn't tear his gaze away: it was as if there was something magical about the way the boy moved. The boy practically glowed in the winter air and never winced at the cold. Draco wondered if the boy was a sorcerer, sometimes.  
  
(And sometimes those images would come back to Draco in the dead of nights, when he'd lie awake in his bed and his fingers would wander down beneath his nightgown. And Draco would think about that boy's pale cock, bedded by hairs; or perhaps his arse, and the little ridges at the base of his spine. Green eyes, drowning Draco like a wild sea.   
  
He'd come with a soft shudder and teeth digging into his bottom lip and wishing that the boy was right next to him, in his bed.)  
  
But he'd also watch the way that the boy would preen when he was done, the strange way he'd let his shoulders slip into his cloak first, how the boy didn't make a sound at all. The boy would kick at the snow when too much got onto him, smiled one time when he'd bent down and little flakes stuck to his nose, and Draco's heart flipped.   
  
And he felt like a coward, too often, just standing here and watching. But he didn't want to interrupt the perfect serenity that was this boy, who bathed as if he were using the water of the heavens. And Draco's insides would clench whenever he was back at the palace with mediocre deer stew in front of him, thinking of the boy and snow on his nose, the impossibly bright smile on his face.  
  
*  
  
So it was on a colder day when Draco got tired of hiding behind trees and decided to approach the boy, because there was nothing the boy could do to him. And Draco had nothing to lose, aside from perhaps his dignity.  
  
But the boy was naked, and—Draco refused to stare at him as much, or at least not blatantly, as he walked through the forest again, determined to reveal himself to the boy today. The boy wouldn't hurt him, he didn't think; the boy looked too gentle for that. And Draco wanted to take that tenderness in his hands and hold him, protect the boy from the cold and from the wars that he always hears his father planning.  
  
He couldn't be too forward about it too, he knew, because the worst was that the boy would run away. He stealthily made his way over to the clearing, and saw the boy as usual, because it was the same time, all the time—then, carefully, walked over, stepping over sticks and leaves and delicately watching for stones—  
  
He thought he might've seen the boy's ears twitch before suddenly the boy was looking at him, green eyes piercing into him. Draco stared back; the boy was on the other side of the river, in the middle of rubbing at his body with nails and palms.  
  
Draco carefully took a step forward; the boy flinched back. Draco kept walking and the boy kept watching, eyes never leaving Draco's face as Draco hopped over a shorter part of the river and made his way toward him.  
  
As Draco got closer, the boy shifted back. Curled into himself. But didn't run away.  
  
"Hello," said Draco as easily as he could.  
  
The boy stared. He looked as if Draco might try to do something terrible to him.  
  
Draco sat down on a rock, the snow barely freezing his bottom. But he needed to let the boy know he wouldn't hurt him—he was a hunter, not a killer.  
  
Slowly the boy moved a bit closer to him. Draco said, "My name's Draco. What's your name?"  
  
The boy cocked his head to the side, and Draco thought for a moment he was asking something like,  _What are you doing here?_  in response to Draco's own question. But then the boy opened his mouth.  
  
The strangest sound came from it. It reminded Draco of the time when he'd gone exploring through the forest with his mother when he was ten years old, and it was the summer, and they'd found a baby deer and a doe and the baby deer had made that same noise to the doe when the doe had brought it its food.  
  
"Are you," said Draco. "Can you speak?"  
  
The boy looked at him with his big, green eyes. Draco forgot about the world for a moment.  
  
But then the boy looked to the snow—and with nimble, clumsy fingers, wrote something. Draco managed to distinguish the characters.  
  
_HARRY_  
  
"Your name's Harry?" he asked the boy, and the boy beamed and nodded. Draco's throat caught; he smiled.  
  
"And I'm assuming you can't speak, then," he said to Harry. "You—but you think you can point to where you come from? I've never—"  _seen you around here? Don't lie, Draco_  "—why do you bathe here?"  _Every day_ , he caught himself before saying out loud.  
  
The boy smiled in response, and then put his palms to the snow and slid into the water. He turned and stood and looked at Draco as if saying,  _Come with me._  
  
"Isn't it cold?" asked Draco.  
  
The boy shrugged, and ducked down into the water. Draco thought he was just adjusting to it; but after a few long moments passed, he scrambled up and shouted, "Harry? Harry, are you okay?"  
  
Black hair broke through the waters and Harry was looking at him, eyes crinkled in laughter. He splashed back down and Draco said, "Good lords, you scared me."  
  
Harry smiled at him, like,  _Yeah, I know I did_. "Don't do that again," said Draco. "I was—just don't."  
  
Harry's eyes were bright and full of some sort of life that Draco hadn't known before. Even if he wasn't a sorcerer, there was something magical about him.  
  
*  
  
"Is there a reason you don't talk?" Draco asked. It was the next day. "Childhood experience? Damage?"  
  
Harry looked at him from splashing around in the water. Shrugged.  
  
"You just can't?" Draco guessed.  
  
Harry shrugged again and then took a deep breath and dove in the water. He came back up, spitting water out, and then waded back over to Draco.  
  
It was only the second day of actually knowing him, but Harry looked like he liked Draco a lot already. He climbed out without any shame and grabbed his cloak and sat down next to Draco. Offered his cloak to him.  
  
"No thank you," said Draco. "Actually, um—" He tugged at his own coat, which if he took off, he'd be freezing. But Harry was wearing absolutely nothing. "I think you should take mine, actually."  
  
Harry took one look at the coat, and crinkled his nose and shook his head. Draco asked, "What? What's wrong with it?"  
  
Harry hit the deer hide with his fabric, and then scooted a little bit away from Draco. Draco moved over to him.  
  
"Okay, if you don't want my coat," he said. "But you must be freezing. Aren't you?"  
  
He took his first temptation then and touched Harry's pale arm, which felt as cool as snow—only smooth, and more alive, as if Draco could also feel his heartbeat beneath his skin. Draco stared at Harry and Harry stared back, unflinching. Then he mimicked the action, touching Draco's hand.  
  
"You're awfully cold. How aren't you…?" said Draco, looking up and down Harry's body. No faint signs of pink or blue or purple, just white all around. Harry stared back, mixed confusion in his eyes.  
  
"Never mind," said Draco, because Harry was obviously not a normal person.  
  
But he didn't mind when Harry got back up again and jumped into the water and opened his mouth into a bright laugh Draco thought he could hear, if he listened close enough.  
  
*  
  
"Father," said Draco a few days later, back at the castle. "What would happen if I were to go outside naked?"  
  
"Naked? Draco, why on earth would you do that?" asked Lucius from atop his throne. Draco was sharpening new arrows, even though he'd used barely only five in the past week.  
  
"Not  _me_ —I mean, I was just wondering,  _if_ ," said Draco.  
  
"You'd fall ill, of course," said his mother. "And then you'd die, Draco, what are you up to?"  
  
"I'm not up to anything, Mother," said Draco. "I was just wondering. But would there be magic that could prevent you from getting ill if you were naked in weather like this?"  
  
"Well magic isn't a common practice now, you know that," said Narcissa. "I imagine that yes, there used to be. But you're not planning on running around naked, are you?" She narrowed her eyes at her son.  
  
Draco shook his head quickly. "Oh, no, of course not," he said. "It was just—a thought I had."  
  
"How's the stag coming along, Draco?" his father asked.  
  
"I, um," said Draco. "I haven't seen one lately."  _I've seen a boy, though. A beautiful boy._  
  
"Don't give up yet," said Lucius. "I have faith in you, my son."  
  
*  
  
"How old are you?" Draco asked, and because Harry couldn't answer, of course, he tried to answer himself. "You look to be around my age," he said, "maybe younger? Eighteen or seventeen? I doubt any younger than seventeen, though."  
  
Harry popped his head up from beneath the waters and beamed at him. Draco couldn't suppress a grin and said, "You act like you're ten years old, though."  
  
An indignant look might've passed over Harry's face before Draco was met with a face-full of ice cold water. He said, "Hey!" and peered through his eyelashes to see Harry laughing at him, green eyes greener than ever. Draco threw snow in the water, but Harry ducked down again and the snow dissolved.  
  
"What was that for?" said Draco, trying to shake himself off. The cold hadn't quite hit him yet; he felt only wet now.  
  
Harry shrugged and as he got nearer, Draco attempted to throw snow at him again. Harry dodged it, but some of the snow sprinkled into his hair. He furrowed his eyebrows and tried to bat it out. Draco chuckled.  
  
"'S no use, it's melting in your hair," he said, and Harry shook his hair frantically, as if it might help. It just got Draco more wet, nothing more.  
  
"Hey, watch where you're splashing! I'm wet as it is," he said, rubbing his arms. Shivering. "And cold."  
  
Harry stopped and frowned then, and started to the other side of the river. Draco thought for a moment that he'd leave him; but Harry merely grabbed his cloak and brought it over to him. Draco shook his head and said, "No, it's yours."  
  
Harry thrust it toward him, green eyes persistent.  _I want you to_ , Draco thought he'd be saying. And Harry smiled a little as if it'd help.  
  
And it would, but Draco found it difficult to really deny Harry at all when he was like this. He brought the cloak around himself and said, "Thanks." Harry seemed enamored by Draco in his cloak by the way he rested his elbows on the snow and just watched; Draco took in the warmth and scent of the coat, smelling stone and fresh pine.  
  
*  
  
"You should come with me back to the palace," Draco said one day, and Harry shook his head. Draco's eyebrows furrowed. "Why not?"  
  
Harry was sitting with his knees up to his chest and nuzzled at his bare legs. With conversation only on one part, it was so difficult getting to know Harry at all. Questions couldn't do—he wished Harry was able to  _talk_.  
  
"You still haven't told me where you come from," said Draco, and then sighed. "And you probably never will."  
  
Harry looked at him wistfully.  
  
"Well I can tell you where I'm from," said Draco. "Well—I  _am_  from a palace, as I've just said. I'm the prince." He smiled at Harry's wide eyes. "My father's the King and my mother's Queen. It's rather nice—won't you come?" he asked again.  
  
Harry shook his head, and then looked pointedly around the forest. As if,  _this is my home_.  
  
"Ah, well, I suppose I can't force you," said Draco. "But I like being prince sometimes, it's nice, it's…" He trailed off.   
  
Harry tilted his head in confusion.  
  
"Well, it's all right," said Draco. "With sleeping and eating and things. But sometimes… everyone tells me,  _you should be trying to do this_  and  _you shouldn't seem like something like that_  and  _don't fuck up, Draco_  and I'm supposed to be perfect, all the time, and it's not—" He broke off. "There's this chef," he started again, "who criticizes everything I bring back, even if my father had congratulated me on getting it earlier. And my nurse, Dolores—she's the  _worst_ , always telling me to keep my back straight and smacking me when I'm not proper. Thank goodness she doesn't come during the winter."  
  
Harry had something heavy in his eyes and put a hand on Draco's knee. Draco smiled at him and softly said, "Thanks."  
  
Harry nodded and put his head against Draco's shoulder. Nudged his neck, a little. Draco's breath caught and hoped Harry didn't notice; but he mustn't have, as they sat there for a few peaceful moments, between the bright sun and snow.  
  
*  
  
"A rabbit today.  _Really_ , Prince Draco?" said one of the chef hands, a few days later, as Draco slipped into the kitchens for something to eat. He'd arrived only twenty minutes ago, as he and Harry had spent a large portion of the day trying to dry Draco off after he had accidentally fallen in the water. Harry had kept getting distracted and accidentally splashing Draco again, who'd yelp and try to splash back. It was long after they realized dusk had fallen when Draco thought about going back, and caught a rabbit along the way to show for something.  
  
"Shut up, Weasley, before I tell the Chef that you're screwing Maid Granger," he said, and then shoved past him to grab a loaf of bread. He ignored Weasley's indignant sputters of denial behind him.  
  
He exited the kitchens and ran into a flurry of knights who were passing by, and Sir Zabini, who was one of the more tolerable ones, said, "How's that stag coming along, my lord?"  
  
Draco huffed and didn't look at him. "Fine," he said, and thought about what he could bring for Harry tomorrow. He'd tried bread a few days before, and then meat. Harry had denied the bread and vehemently the meat, smacking it to the ground and kicking it away. Draco wondered what he had against meat.  
  
"My lord," said another voice, startling Draco out of his thoughts. It was Sir Macmillan. "I said, you haven't even seen the stag, have you?"  
  
Draco glared as the knights chuckled, and another knight said to Macmillan, "He probably completely forgot about it."  
  
"I have not," Draco snapped. "And you should think twice before speaking to your prince that way."  
  
"Oh yes, my prince." Sir Finnigan bowed mockingly and the other knights laughed. "Maybe once you've actually caught something worthy enough, and aren't just the son of someone who has."  
  
The knights walked away, laughing mirthlessly, and Draco thought of Harry again before allowing himself to continue down the corridor.  
  
*  
  
Draco left earlier the next day after the embarrassing encounter with the knights, to avoid seeing them. Most of the castle tucked in till noon on rest days, and it was the perfect time for him to leave. The earliest he had seen Harry was the first day, and his pulse quickened just at the thought of seeing Harry at all.  
  
He walked through the woods without worrying about making noise anymore; the snow crackled happily against his feet and his bow might've felt a bit stiff from lack of use. Yet Draco wished time were faster, or slower, for either the sooner he could see Harry or the longer they could sit by each other, Draco talking senselessly about something or other and Harry pressed against him a listening.  
  
There was a rustle.   
  
Draco stopped for a moment.   
  
He heard the rustle again.  
  
And then large, loud footsteps—no,  _hooves_ , racing through the forest and Draco started running and he thought he saw a pair of antlers but he wasn't sure—  
  
And then they stopped.  
  
Draco stopped too, and looked around. He was in the clearing that he always came to. But was that just the stag?  
  
He broke through the trees to see Harry there, in his cloak. "Harry!" he said, and, startled, Harry looked up and smiled at him.  
  
"I thought I saw—" started Draco, but figured that Harry wouldn't be interested in the stag, especially not after Harry had seemed afraid of his deer hide cloak and hadn't wanted to eat meat. Perhaps Harry was just an animal sympathizer.  
  
Harry was still beautiful with his cloak on and Draco shook his head and said, "Never mind," wanting to watch Harry bathe again. Harry just looked at him questioningly for a moment, then slid his cloak off and started toward the other side of the river. Draco waited until he was halfway before going to the narrower part as he always did and hopped over.  
  
"Faster than you again," he said with a grin. Harry rolled his green eyes and slipped under, then came out and pushed himself upward until he was sitting next to Draco as usual.  
  
"I think you're the strangest person I've ever met," said Draco conversationally. "And I've met pretty strange people. Like this king who came to visit from the south. He had no hair and no nose!" And then, "No, I think he's stranger than you."  
  
Harry's mouth opened in a smile that Draco thought that he might be laughing again. God, he just wanted to hear  _something_  come from Harry.  
  
"You know," he said, "my parents are waiting for the right girl to marry me. And by 'right', I mean a princess who comes from a land that we can have a peaceful alliance with. But I don't like girls all that much." He tugged with the buttons of his coat. "I prefer boys."  
  
Harry watched him, curiously. Draco swallowed.  
  
"Do you," he said, looking up at Harry. "Do you know what I mean by that?"  
  
Harry continued watching him.  
  
Draco placed a palm to Harry's gentle cheek. Harry was unflinching, although he did look at Draco's hand with an air of confusion. Draco pressed his forehead against Harry's and Harry didn't blink as Draco stared into his eyes. Then, slowly, softly, Draco bowed his head down and cupped Harry's face and slid his lips against Harry's.  
  
Harry was soft and smooth, just as the rest of him; yet with a sort of boyish hardness that Draco longed to taste more of. He coaxed Harry's lips with his own, and then Harry was pressing back, a bit hesitantly, parting his mouth when Draco pushed against him a little harder. Harry was cold and fresh and Draco wanted more of him, wanted to wrap himself in Harry and bury his heat deep into him.  
  
His hands slipped down and onto Harry's shoulders, fingers digging into them. Then his arms, and his naked back, and Harry shivered a little and pressed closer to him. Draco broke away for a mere second and whispered against his dark hair, "It'll be all right," and Harry nodded, and Draco licked at his cheek, sucked gently at his neck.  
  
He was wandering down until he was holding Harry's arse, a little—and Draco couldn't help it now, he was hard. And he searched blindly for Harry's cock too, and Harry was silently mouthing at his jaw, trembling delightfully when Draco's nails and knuckles skimmed over his skin.  
  
And he found Harry's cock, and he rubbed his thumb against him experimentally, and Harry writhed against him. Draco pulled back so it wasn't quite as hot anymore, and Harry's skin was marginally warmer now (especially where Draco was currently touching), and Harry let out the strangest whimper and Draco said, "No, this will be easier."  
  
In all honesty, he wanted to watch Harry when he got him off—he'd seen nothing but carefree brightness when he was with Harry, aside from the brief moments when Draco managed to playfully shove him in the water or when now when he'd just pulled away.  
  
But he wanted to see Harry in pleasure,  _irresistible_ , and he tightened his grip around Harry's cock and Harry was red and hard in his hold. Harry was watching him and Draco heard,  _Please don't stop_ , and he stroked Harry like his own, because this was  _Harry_  and he was sprawled mercilessly on the snow and Draco wanted to see him, wanted to  _see_  him and his fist was hot as he got Harry off and Harry's eyes were dark and green and blown and beautiful as he unwound.  
  
Draco let go, and wiped his hand on the snow when Harry was done. Harry narrowed his eyes, so Draco said, "Would you rather see me do this?" and licked his palm.  
  
It certainly didn't taste good and it was cold, but Harry's eyes went dark again so he did it again. And then Draco laughed and said, "You're amazing, do you know that?"  
  
Harry's eyebrows furrowed, and Draco continued, "I don't even know anything about you, but you… I feel that I know you, anyways. You've still got this," he touched Harry's chest, felt the small beat beneath his palm, "and I do too, and I think that's all I need to know you."  
  
Harry still looked confused, but dove for Draco's lips and started kissing him messily again. Draco laughed again. "You like doing that, don't you?"  
  
Harry nodded and crawled into Draco's lap and Draco didn't mind at all.  
  
*  
  
So Draco left the wood in high spirits and even if he was looked at oddly, especially by the knights, it hardly bothered him at all. The time he'd spent with Harry felt like something in a dream, or perhaps another lifetime—he didn't want to want to forget the feeling of Harry's wet lips dancing on his skin, trying to praise every part of Draco he could reach, desperately—Harry still reminded him of a child even in intimate moments, and Draco loved kissing the life out of him, holding his face so close and feeling that none of this mattered, body and whatever was between them, because  _god_ , this was Harry.  
  
He wanted the day to happen again, for every day for the rest of his life to be just like this one. He wasn't a prince anymore and Harry wasn't just a boy who bathed naked in ice cold water—everything was forgotten when he was pressed so close to Harry, feeling every bit of him, his cold turning to heat, more than just flesh and blood in this world.  
  
Sleep took him that night and Draco dreamed of Harry, of heaven.  
  
The next day, unfortunately, he was woken up early by his nurse Dolores—spring lessons were to resume today, even though Draco was well past the age that he needed to be tended by a nurse. But Nurse Dolores was strict and commanding and both the king and queen wanted Draco to be as perfect as ever, so even at nineteen, he was learning to walk with a stick straight posture and reading with his fingers in the most formal positions.  
  
Most of his day was taken up by his lessons, broken by meal breaks and unimportant announcements from Lucius on new policies that would be applied to the kingdom. Draco tried to skip in the middle of the afternoon, and when Dolores caught him by the scruff of his collar, Draco attempted to ask her if he could go hunting.  
  
"Right now isn't hunting time, dear," said Dolores in a sickly sweet voice. "It's your lessons. You may go hunting later tonight."  
  
"Tomorrow," said Lucius. "Tonight will be too late."  
  
"But—" said Draco. He'd never missed a meeting with Harry before.  
  
"You heard your father," said Dolores.  
  
"And your swordsmanship needs some work," added Lucius. "With your posture."  
  
Draco grumbled as he was dragged away. "Damned posture," he muttered, before resuming lessons with Dolores.  
  
In the evening, he excused himself from dinner, and then grabbed his bow and arrows out of habit and then ran out of the castle. The sky was blue and dark and the moon shone bright in the sky, but Draco could only think of Harry. As the mist gathered in the wood, he followed the familiar path to the clearing, pausing only to catch his breath. He hoped Harry was still here.  
  
The mist broke near the river and Draco looked over, fingers braced around his bow. But instead of seeing Harry like he expected, there was another dark figure that didn't resemble Harry at all. Moonlight shot through the trees and Draco moved only a little to the side. And then his breath hitched.  
  
It was the stag.  
  
He couldn't miss this opportunity, even though seeing Harry was more important. But he remembered what his father had said to him, what the knights had said, what the cooks had said—and this was a  _stag_. It raised its head and looked regal under the moon, and bent over to drink the water, unsuspecting to Draco hiding between the trees.  
  
He strung an arrow to the bow, adjusted it. Ducking behind a tree and peering around only a little bit, taking careful aim to the stag's heart. The stag raised its head again, almost as if looking for something in the distance—  
  
—and Draco's arrow pierced it deep in the heart. Dark blood started seeping out immediately, and Draco was overcome with accomplishment  
  
before the stag's body started shrinking and became smaller and smaller until it was in the figure of a boy.  
  
Draco let out a cry in horror; blood was gushing out of Harry's chest, violently, beneath the arrow. Draco leapt to the other side of the river and then he was by Harry's body, holding his head in his lap, and Harry was looking up at him and god his green eyes were already glassy and god, Harry,  _no_ —  
  
Harry looked at him like,  _I thought you wouldn't come_  and he was smiling and  _fuck_.  
  
"I—I—" Draco was shaking his head and something was tearing at his heart and shit, his face was wet. "I'm here," he whispered, holding Harry close to him.  
  
Harry wouldn't stop smiling and it was killing him. A little bit of blood was leaking out of his mouth and he opened it and that noise, that same noise that baby deer had made to its mother came out and Draco sobbed even harder, because, "God, you're that stag, weren't you? All along, fuck, I'm so sorry, I."  
  
He held Harry's head close to his chest, wanting his tears to make Harry okay again, wanting to— "I'm so sorry," he whispered, and Harry let out a choked sound, like it was getting hard for him to breathe. Harry touched his wrist, his cheek, looked at him like,  _It's okay, I forgive you_ , and Draco shook his head, wouldn't stop shaking his head.  
  
"I'm so—it's my fault, it's my fault, I," he said, but his heart was hurting too much for him to even feel properly guilty. Harry touched his lips lightly with his fingers and Draco realized that he was shaking, that he couldn't stop shaking.  
  
Harry gripped onto his hand. Leaned forward with the little strength he had left and pressed their mouths together. His eyes were wet, too, but empty, getting lighter and lighter with each passing second. Under the moon, Draco whimpered out, "No, no, no," but Harry wouldn't stop slipping away, and Draco tightened his hand around Harry's, counting every beat in his palm until it beat no more.  
  
Then Draco put his head into Harry's chest and wept.  
  
*  
  
Draco wrapped Harry's cloak around him, and then let him into the river and let him sink. He thought of how Harry never needed the cloak to freeze, though—his touch was always cold but Harry's gaze was always so warm.  
  
He sat there until dawn and when he woke up, fresh tears were frozen on his face.  
  
He told his father and his mother and the kingdom that the stag had disappeared, that it had left. Perhaps, to another country. The king and queen were disappointed and the knights laughed at him and Draco went to sleep every night with his blanket wrapped around him and wishing he were somewhere warmer, like the forest in the middle of winter with a boy as they smiled against each other's mouths.   
  
He never hunted anymore.  
  
Fifteen years later, he had a pretty wife and pretty children and was king of knights who'd bow down to him before talking. And when his children would talk about the winter and about the horrible cold it'd bring, Draco would tell them stories of a man who hunted during the winter, found a man, and fell in love and stayed with him forever, by the river.


End file.
